Tripotage
by Ezra Quinn
Summary: Tripotage: (n) Underhanded plotting or scheming. [Etymology: French 'fiddle']. An exploration of the evolution of Hannibal and Dr. Du Maurier's relationship, from the day she's attacked by a patient to the night that Hannibal serves her dinner during the season one finale.
1. The Referral

Hannibal slid black leather gloves over his hands, despite the warm sunny weather, as he strode from his car to Dr. Du Maurier's office. He opened the door without a sound, shutting it just as quietly behind him. He heard shouting from the other side of the waiting room door, and glanced at the clock on the wall. Four minutes past three. Looking down at his own watch, he read seven minutes past three. Du Maurier was three minutes behind.

Hannibal heard a crash from inside Du Maurier's office, and strode quickly but calmly across the waiting room to open the door. The doctor was backed up against her desk, and one of the small black couches was overturned. Michael Jameson was shouting at Du Maurier, brandishing a knife in one hand and gripping one of her wrists in the other.

"I'm tired of being passed down from one shrink to the next! Everybody always leaves me or kicks me to the curb! Well, I'm tired of it! I can't take it anymore, and I won't take it from you!" Prolonged frustration and the wrong medication can do wonders for bringing out the rudeness in others, especially the mentally unstable and those with a pre-existing inclination towards discourtesy.

As Michael continued ranting, Hannibal slowly and deliberately placed himself within view by the curtained glass doors behind Du Maurier's desk, directly in Michael's line of sight. "YOU!"

"Michael, please, calm down. You're having an episode, and it will pass. Just calm—"

"It will not pass!" The man wailed hoarsely through tears. "You abandoned me! You got tired of me, and you abandoned me, and you passed me on to this bitch," he twisted Du Maurier's wrist, and she cried out in pain even after he released her, advancing now on Hannibal, who stood with his hands clasped behind his back.

"I understand that you are upset, but I will not tolerate rudeness towards my colleague," Hannibal said calmly, and when Michael drew the knife to attack, Hannibal threw open the curtains covering the glass doors behind him, and the sunlight hit Michael full in the face. He screamed and threw up his arms to block out the light, but Hannibal seized Michael's arms to force them down, and in the same movement he leaned towards the startled man and murmured something in his ear. Michael's eyes flung open and he moved his mouth to speak, but he suddenly began to tremble and choke. Sputtering, he fell to the ground at Hannibal's feet and went into a choking fit, arms apparently immobilized.

Hannibal walked away from Michael and back around the desk to Dr. Du Maurier, who was clutching a bruised and swollen wrist, staring in shock at her patient twitching on the floor.

"He's having an epileptic seizure," Hannibal explained calmly, "From the sudden exposure to the sunlight." He removed his gloves and reached for Du Maurier's wrist, but she pulled it away, still staring at Michael.

"Is he—"

"There is nothing we can do," Hannibal lied, holding out his hand for Du Maurier's injured wrist. The wet sounds Michael had been making stopped suddenly, and he stopped moving. Hannibal gently rested a hand on her shoulder, and she finally tore her gaze from the body and allowed Hannibal to examine her wrist.

"I suggest that you cancel your appointments for the rest of the week," Hannibal said as he stroked his thumbs across the base of her palm and fingers. "And once I've finished with this," he gently brushed his fingertips against either side of her wrist, "You should call the police."

"Thank you," Dr. Maurier said quietly as Hannibal released her wrist, allowing his fingers to graze hers in the process. Her hair had fallen into her face, curving around her cheeks.

"It appears to be a bad sprain," Hannibal informed her, and he began gathering items to craft a makeshift splint.

Returning to Dr. Du Maurier's side with the appropriate supplies moments later, he hung his head convincingly and said, "I regret that my referral caused this to happen to you, Doctor."

She met his eyes briefly, but then looked back towards the motionless form of Michael Jameson on the floor a few feet away and asked, "Do you regret killing him, Hannibal?"

Hannibal didn't look at the body, but kept his gaze focused on Dr. Maurier as he replied gravely, "I'm afraid it was the best thing for him. His therapy was going nowhere."


	2. Metaphors

"Have a seat, Hannibal," Dr. Du Maurier welcomed Hannibal into her office for the first time since the incident, three weeks later.

"I'm glad you have reopened your practice," Hannibal said, standing politely by his seat until Dr. Du Maurier sat in hers.

"For the time being," she replied, somewhat heavily, as she slowly lowered herself into her usual poised arrangement on the chair.

"You will be taking more time off, then?" Hannibal stated more than asked, holding deliberate eye contact with Dr. Du Maurier, who returned it steadily.

"No, I will be retiring."

"You are a smart, able-bodied woman, Doctor. Surely you don't doubt your ability to carry on past the unfortunate incident with Michael Jameson."

"This time is for the exploration of _your_ psyche, not mine, Hannibal."

"I'm speaking to you now as a colleague rather than a patient."

Her blink, imperceptibly longer than usual, conveyed the sigh she would have exhaled then, had she less poise and collectedness. "It is not a question of can't, but won't. I will not put myself in danger of a similar situation happening again on the off chance that you are around to put a stop to it."

"Is that your way of thanking me?" Hannibal had averted his gaze, looking down at his hands, appearing to be flattered.

"If you want it to be," the doctor uncrossed and re-crossed her legs, and Hannibal allowed himself to admire the elegant but telling movement. She was ready for the subject to be changed.

"I don't."

"Why is that?"

"I blame myself for it happening in the first place," Hannibal explained, his eyes drifting to the space on the floor a few feet away, where Michael had died. "I referred him to you."

"You thought I would be able to help him."

"I thought wrong," Hannibal's gaze pulled away from the former crime scene and refocused on Dr. Du Maurier, who held eye contact with him calmly and steadily. Her eyes reminded him of the cool blue outer portion of a bunsen burner flame, and he wondered how he could get to the hotter, more reactive region within it.

"No one is in complete control of the world around them, and so you cannot hold yourself responsible or accountable for the actions of others," she told him sagely.

"And yet part of the human condition is seeking to obtain that control." _Some more successfully than others._ Hannibal, for example, had all of the control but felt none of the responsibility: the perfect balance.

"Do you seek that control yourself, Hannibal?" Her body remained as still as his, but her head tilted whenever she asked a question, as if there was an angle from which she would be able to see into his mind.

Hannibal feigned thought, and rolled his tongue between his lips before answering, "No. I could not handle the burden of guilt that comes with that responsibility."

Three quarters of an hour later, Dr. Du Maurier glanced down at the watch on her healthy wrist and announced that their time was up. Hannibal looked down at his own and saw that the hour had been up two minutes ago. He wondered if Dr. Du Maurier's watch was behind like the clock in the waiting room, or if she had simply not been paying close attention to the time.

"Red or white today, Hannibal?" The doctor asked, standing and walking across the room towards the wine cabinet and fridge.

Rather than remain seated as he usually did, Hannibal rose as well and said, "White, I think. Perhaps something with apricot?" He stood for a moment, watching Dr. Du Maurier's back as her uninjured left hand fingered a few bottles until she found the one she was looking for. Hannibal approached her quietly from behind as she pulled the bottle off the shelf, and when he arrived at her side, he reached out and gently grasped the neck of the bottle, one of his fingers overlapping onto two of hers. "Allow me; your wrist is still injured."

"Of course. Thank you," her tone was grateful, but her face remained unreadable as she surrendered her grip on the bottle.

After pouring their glasses and returning to their seats, Hannibal asked, "How are your other patients responding to your plans for retirement?"

"Very well," she replied, and eyed Hannibal over the edge of her glass as she added, "You're the only one who seems to object to it."

"Your hour as my psychiatrist is finished, Doctor. My psyche would prefer to remain untouched until next week," Hannibal replied with a playful tone, but his stoic expression remained unmoved as he watched the psychiatrist opposite him.

"My apologies," Du Maurier bowed her head, conceding Hannibal's point.

"How is your wrist?" Hannibal swirled the wine in his glass to bring out the bouquet.

"It should be healed in the next two to three weeks," she replied, watching Hannibal as he dipped his nose into the glass and appeared to be temporarily lost in the aroma. "The doctor in the emergency room was impressed with your splint." She paused. "It's a shame there was nothing to save Michael."

"It was a shame. And you know how the saying goes: 'Old habits…'"

Dr. Du Maurier allowed herself a small smile. "So first aid is something like riding a bike?"

Hannibal's gaze wandered towards where Michael had fallen into an entirely preventable and treatable seizure, and then said, "Yes, something like that."

"The clock in your waiting room is five minutes behind," Hannibal pointed out conversationally as he stood to leave twenty minutes later.

"The last time you mentioned it, you said it was only three minutes," Dr. Du Maurier replied.

Hannibal regarded her with interest for a moment before stepping towards the door and offering, "Would you like me to fix it for you?"

"I appreciate the offer, but I've tried to fix it myself whenever you've mentioned that it's behind," she had been looking at the door to the waiting room, but now she looked back up at Hannibal. "It seems that whenever I reset it, by the time you return for your appointment the following week, it has fallen behind again."

"Perhaps you need a new clock," Hannibal suggested.

"Or less observant clients," Dr. Du Maurier replied almost flirtatiously, though her tone was too unreadable to tell for sure. "I'll see you next week, Hannibal." He nodded politely before opening the door and stepping out of the office.

What Hannibal loved the most about the arts and literature were deep, symbolic metaphors; he found that they had a tendency to follow him in life as well, rippling behind him like the wake of a large ship that jostled the smaller boats around it.


	3. A Dinner Party

"Ah, Dr. Lecter! Welcome! Come in, come in," Dr. Talibri stepped back graciously to welcome Hannibal into his home. As Hannibal's taste in cuisine was different from most other people, he avoided attending dinner parties whenever possible. Of course, he could appreciate the taste of more traditional forms of meat, but one hardly knew much about the animal they were eating if they'd bought it at the supermarket. It was a very risky business, not to mention the fact that there was just something lacking in the flavor and texture. You are what you eat, after all, and that holds especially true for taste (in many manners of speaking).

At any rate, Hannibal would only accept dinner invitations from colleagues who had attended his own parties; it would be ungracious to refuse after they had been to his. Of course, in extreme circumstances, he was not afraid to kill someone whose invitation he must—but could not politely—refuse. In his mind, the murders he committed—or services, as he preferred to think of them—were not only done to silence to rude, but to prevent the spread of rudeness. He considered it a courtesy to kill them; rather than committing rudeness himself, he prevented it through silencing the instigator of the conflict. It was the most logical and practical way to deal with the situation, he thought.

"I was just about to serve the wine," Dr. Talibri said as he showed Hannibal into the sitting room where the other guests were talking amongst themselves. Hannibal swept his eyes around the room, and was surprised by one of the guests he recognized.

Dr. Du Maurier looked up when Hannibal came into the room with Dr. Talibri, and unmistakably reciprocated his surprise. The corner of Hannibal's mouth twitched up into a small grin; her guard was down here, as she wasn't in her professional state of mind, and so she certainly wasn't prepared to interact with Hannibal.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll be just a moment to bring out the wine." Dr. Talibri inclined his head and offered a charming smile to his guests before striding out of the room.

"Dr. Lecter!" Hannibal was greeted warmly by the other guests, all five of whom he recognized, though most he hadn't spoken to before. There were two neurosurgeons (Dr. Eric Walker and Dr. Emelia Pierce), two married professors (Drs. Sean and Holly Hardwick), and three psychiatrists (Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier, Dr. Hank Talibri, and of course Dr. Hannibal Lecter).

"Your piece on sociopathy was astounding," a woman in a dark blue dress gushed as she wrung Hannibal's hand; he barely recognized her as Dr. Pierce, as she was constantly changing her appearance, and had done so since the last time he'd seen her. She went on, "It read like a work of literature with the content of a scientific study. Very well-done."

"You're too kind," Hannibal donned the bashful mask, accepting compliments from some of the other guests before it came time for Dr. Du Maurier to greet him.

"Hannibal, have you met Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier? She does excellent work in unconventional psychotherapy," Dr. Hardwick—a psychology professor at Johns Hopkins—introduced them with a hand on each of their shoulders. Dr. Du Maurier was wearing a form-fitting byzantium evening gown of silk, with a wave-shaped cut of fine mesh exposing a veiled diagonal of her abdomen. It was a strapless piece, and her broad, smooth shoulders and collarbone were exposed.

"Bedelia is one of the more brilliant among us this evening," Dr. Pierce chimed in.

Hannibal savored the moment when Dr. Du Maurier waited for him to decide how to define their relationship, not knowing whether he would even acknowledge it or not. The power was all his, as the patient, to decide how to describe their relationship. If Dr. Du Maurier said anything about it, she would be in violation of doctor-patient confidentiality. The moment could not be savored for long, however, and so Hannibal replied to both Dr. Pierce and Dr. Hardwick while looking at Dr. Du Maurier.

"Yes, we have met and collaborated on a number of occasions," Hannibal enveloped Dr. Du Maurier's extended left hand in both of his and watched her carefully as he added, "But never socially. I must admit, you wear byzantium silk extremely well, Bedelia." He thought he caught a glimpse of the combustive dark blue flame in her eyes when he pronounced her first name, which he had never done before, but it quickly flickered back to the less reactive lighter blue. "If you'll pardon my inadvertent objectification," he added with a sly but apologetic smile.

"Thank you," was Dr. Du Maurier's only reply, breaking eye contact and turning to continue a conversation with one of the professors.

Dr. Talibri returned to his guests just then, bringing with him a platter of six filled wine glasses and the announcement that dinner will be served shortly. Sure enough, less than ten minutes later, they were all seated at the table in Dr. Talibri's elegant dining room. Hannibal was seated between Drs. Pierce and Du Maurier; he had made a point to sit beside Dr. Du Maurier, and Dr. Pierce had made a point to sit beside him. Throughout the meal, she would frequently brush her hand against his thigh on the pretense of reaching for her napkin, and then lean in quite close to him to apologize.

As they progressed through the courses of Dr. Talibri's expertly prepared meal, there was talk of new psychological research, how difficult it is to obtain funding for one's own research in competitive fields like neuroscience, the pros and cons of electroconvulsive therapy, and various other topics the dinner guests shared a common interest in. Eventually, the conversation turned towards dealing with difficult patients.

"…And that's why I was initially hesitant to welcome women into psychiatry. You will undoubtedly get a violent patient every now and then, like you said, Hank, and we all know that women are much weaker than men, physically, and it would be much harder for them to defend themselves," Dr. Walker, one of the neurosurgeons, said in response to Dr. Talibri's comment that violent patients are an unfortunate inevitability in practicing psychiatry. There was an awkward silence following his sexist statement, which he seemed to take no notice of as he added, looking across the table at Dr. Du Maurier, "I've heard you had such an incident yourself recently, Bedelia, if you don't mind me raising the subject." Hannibal slowly raised his head from his meal at the mention of Dr. Du Maurier's name, and a gaze of the sharpest interest was focused on the offensive neurosurgeon seated across from him.

"I do mind, as a matter of fact, Dr. Walker," Dr. Du Maurier replied in her usual calm, dignified tone, looking up from her meal to make icy eye contact with the neurosurgeon as she continued, "But as you've already mentioned it and we cannot pretend you hadn't, I'd like to ask what gives you the impression that I was unable to defend myself."

It was the most she had talked about herself the entire evening, though Hannibal could not tell if it was due to his presence or because of a natural inclination towards reservedness. Either way, the entire dinner party had paused in their meals to take in the tense conversation that had just begun in their midst. Dr. Walker alone continued to eat, apparently oblivious to the tension.

"Well I'm sorry to bring up such a sore subject," though it was obvious he wasn't, "But my sources tell me that if your patient hadn't swallowed his own tongue during the attack, you wouldn't have come out of it unharmed."

The other guests gasped at the graphic detail that Dr. Walker offered them, and he hardly bothered himself to hide his pleasure at the effect he had caused.

"It seems to me, Dr. Walker," Hannibal began slowly and evenly, "that your sources are either unqualified to know such details and are lying, or they need to be reported for sharing private information that belongs to the police and those directly involved. Either way, I'm afraid that, as colorful a story as you have painted for us, your information comes from unreliable sources and cannot be trusted or treated as fact."

Dr. Walker finally stopped eating and, looking suggestively from Hannibal to Dr. Du Maurier, asked, "Does this mean you know more about what happened, Dr. Lecter?" Finally, he'd picked up on the sardonic use of titles and surnames.

"No. Unlike you, I don't presume to know about other people's affairs," Hannibal picked up his utensils once more, and as he cut his meat, continued briskly, "And as to your point regarding women in this field, you'll find two other women at this table who you'll find to be alive and quite well, regardless of what you might have expected." He offered a cold, amused smile to Dr. Walker before lowering his eyes to his food to resume eating; with much tinkling and clanking, the other guests did the same.

"I have an amusing story myself, actually," Dr. Pierce piped up cheerfully, eager to cut through the tension, "concerning a difficult schizophrenic I was trying to get into the MRI machine…" her story was appropriately humorous, and the tension that had fallen over the dinner party quickly dissipated, though Dr. Walker remained mostly silent for the remainder of the evening. He was also the first to leave, on the pretense of having important business to attend to first thing in the morning.

"As your host, I feel the need to apologize for Eric's inappropriate behavior," Dr. Talibri said, upon Dr. Walker's exit from the house as they all were gathered in the sitting room, drinking water and digesting their food. "He's usually very friendly and respectful. I had no idea he was so…"

Words failed the polite and genial Dr. Talibri, but Dr. Holly Hardwick—one of the married professors—finished his sentence for him, with a slight smile: "Sexist?"

"The casually offensive types tend to be the hardest to pick out of a crowd," Holly's husband Sean chimed in with a what-can-you-do frown and a shrug.

"I actually find they're quite easy to spot," Hannibal said thoughtfully, gazing pensively into his glass.

"Well of course you can, Dr. Lecter," Dr. Pierce said in her usual flirtatious tone, briefly touching Hannibal's knee affectionately, "But not everybody has the same level of perception that you do."

The others laughed, and in a few minutes' time, the night was over and everybody was gathering themselves to leave. Hannibal helped Dr. Pierce with her jacket while Dr. Talibri helped Dr. Du Maurier into hers, and Dr. Pierce turned to face Hannibal, a flirtatious smile playing on her lips. "Lovely to see you as always, Doctor. You should pay a social visit to my practice sometime." She offered her hand, and Hannibal kissed it lightly, offering only an enigmatic smile as a reply.

Dr. Du Maurier was behind them on their way out the door, and Hannibal turned to her and asked, "May I have a word with you?"

"Briefly, yes," Dr. Du Maurier replied.

They bid Dr. Talibri, Drs. Hardwick, and Dr. Pierce goodnight before stepping out into the surprisingly chilly night. As they made their way down Dr. Talibri's walk, Hannibal said, "I wanted to apologize for speaking out of turn while Dr. Walker was being discourteous. It was not until after I'd spoken that I realized I may have tread slightly upon your toes."

"I appreciate the apology, Hannibal, but it is unnecessary. You confronted him politely and concisely, better than I could have at the time. I admit, even my patience has its limits." Her tone was friendly, but still cautious, and she did not make direct eye contact.

"I'm glad to hear I have not tested those limits myself," Hannibal replied, stopping when Dr. Du Maurier stopped at her car.

"Dr. Walker is one of very few," Dr. Du Maurier unlocked her car and opened the door, looking at Hannibal briefly as she said, "Goodnight, Hannibal."

"Goodnight," Hannibal replied, bowing his head politely before walking further down the street to where his own car was parked. After climbing in and shutting the door, he withdrew four business cards from his jacket pocket. Of course, he already had Dr. Talibri's and Dr. Du Maurier's, and he flicked through the cards until he found Dr. Walker's. He read it over twice before it was committed to his memory, and pocketed it before turning the keys in the ignition and pulling away from Dr. Talibri's house. As he made his way home, he began contemplating recipes he had not yet used for tongue.


	4. Operant Conditioning

When Hannibal arrived in Dr. Du Maurier's waiting room the following week, he found that he was earlier than usual, due to the earlier start to his day to prepare for his plans after his appointment. He noted that the clock was only four minutes behind now; a minute better than it had been the previous week, meaning that Dr. Du Maurier had made another attempt to reset it.

As he was earlier than usual, Hannibal opted to sit rather than stand while he waited for his appointment. He unbuttoned his jacket as he sank into the small sofa, and allowed himself to recline into his thoughts.

Ever since Dr. Talibri's dinner party Thursday night, Hannibal found himself frequently revisiting the image of Dr. Du Maurier from that night in her form-fitting silk dress. He was not usually one for lustful thoughts and desires, but he could not deny any longer that he found Dr. Du Maurier to be very attractive. She was a very poised, sophisticated, and extremely intelligent woman who carried herself with a quiet dignity that could almost be mistaken for arrogance if it weren't for her flawless manners. Her skin—which, until Thursday night, Hannibal had only seen on her face, hands, and legs—was very smooth with a natural light tan, which made it appear almost as if she was glowing faintly. Her legs were very pleasing to look at, as they were strong without losing their feminine elegance.

She was the ideal woman, the likes of which Hannibal had not seen in a very long time. He could not help but wonder what her breasts would feel like through the deep purple silk, and how her lips would taste after he fed her Dr. Walker's tongue… he would find all of this out, of course, in good time, but there were other steps yet to be taken to ensure this experiment would be successful. At first, it had been just that: an experiment; a simple exercise in carnal manipulation, but now he was beginning to get quite excited about it.

Remembering where he was, Hannibal brought his thoughts back to the present, where he was still in the earlier stages of the experiment. These were the most delicate steps, to be taken very carefully, as the slightest mis-step could send him back to where he began.

"Come in, Hannibal," Dr. Du Maurier opened the door from her office moments later, and Hannibal strode across the waiting room. The doctor stood with her back against the door, holding it open for Hannibal, and as he passed through the doorway, his chest brushed lightly against hers.

He stood by his normal seat while Dr. Du Maurier shut the door and turned to walk towards hers, but as she turned, Hannibal noticed that she was no longer wearing a splint on her wrist. "Your splint has been removed," he remarked cheerfully as she took her seat.

"Yes, just yesterday," Dr. Du Maurier glanced briefly down at her wrist as she sat down, and then looked at Hannibal with polite curiosity. Hannibal noticed that the way she was holding her wrist stiffly indicated that she was clearly feeling some pain.

"May I examine it?" Hannibal remained standing as he made the offer, and his psychiatrist did not answer right away; she was looking at him with an intent curiosity now.

"Yes, if you'd like," she finally replied, and as Hannibal closed the distance between them with two steps, she made to stand as well.

"No, please, stay seated," Hannibal insisted politely, and sat beside Dr. Du Maurier on the small leather couch, angling himself slightly to face her to compensate for being directly at her side.

He carefully lifted her hand and wrist with both of his hands and examined the fading bruise pattern and swelling. Next he delicately traced a fingertip from one side of her wrist down to the tip of her index finger, and again from the other side down to the tip of her little finger. This was a test for circulation and sensation, which he didn't feel was necessary for its intended purpose, but rather his own very different one: he took note of the small hairs that stood at attention along Dr. Du Maurier's forearm.

"Your concern is touching, Hannibal," Dr. Du Maurier remarked, attempting to sound grateful but Hannibal knew better.

"You mean it's surprising," he corrected her without looking up from her wrist as he continued examining it.

"What makes you think I'm surprised?" She made a valiant effort to feign ignorance, but Hannibal saw right through it.

"Dr. Du Maurier, please do not be dishonest with me. You have been very frank and honest up to this point in our sessions; please do not stop now," As Hannibal continued his examination, he pressed his tumb gently into the sensitive bruise on Dr. Du Maurier's wrist, and she gasped in pain. "My apologies, Doctor. Did that hurt?"

After a moment of careful consideration, Dr. Du Maurier replied slowly, "I confess that I have noticed some sociopathic symptoms in you, and so the concern and caring behavior are a bit surprising."

"You do not think my concern is genuine, then?" Hannibal asked, finished with the examination but still holding and looking at her arm.

"You are an intelligent and talented man. You could play the part very convincingly without feeling any of it," Dr. Du Maurier was attempting to pierce into him with her sharp clinical gaze, but he had been avoiding eye contact to build up to this next moment.

"I may have unorthodox ways of showing it," Hannibal began with his eyes lowered and head bowed, but raised his eyes and face to make direct eye contact with Dr. Du Maurier as he continued, "But I can assure you, I care very deeply about you." He slowly raised her hand, careful not to irritate her wrist, and gently pressed his lips to her fingers. It was a swift, graceful movement, but as it happened, the clinical veil that masked Dr. Du Maurier's face was temporarily blown back, as if by a breeze. When Hannibal's lips made contact with her hand, the light blue in her eyes flickered and Hannibal could see that he'd reached the hotter, more reactive part of the flame.

"Red or white today?" Dr. Du Maurier stood an hour later, and walked past where Hannibal was seated to select and pour the wine.

Hannibal rose from his seat and followed her to the wine cabinet, standing just behind her to look over her shoulder. He caught a whiff of her perfume, layered over her natural pheromones, and leaned forward slightly to breathe it in more deeply.

"It's a pity that your brand of perfume was discontinued," Hannibal observed upon recognizing the scent.

Dr. Du Maurier turned from the cabinet to face Hannibal with mixed expressions on her face, but in her eyes the darker flame was burning still. "I knew you had a nose for wine, but not for perfume as well."

Hannibal painted a modest smile on his face and replied unblinkingly, "I only recognize the ones I like." Dr. Du Maurier studied his face for a moment, but then turned her back to Hannibal to select a wine.

After Hannibal uncorked the bottle and Dr. Du Maurier poured it, they returned to their seats and sat in comfortable silence while Hannibal went through his usual routine for settling into a wine: swirling his glass, hovering his nose just below the rim, closing his eyes, and taking in the wine's aroma. After going through this routine and rolling his first sip over his tongue, Hannibal observed, "You have a very unique name, Doctor."

"So says the man called Hannibal," Dr. Du Maurier replied, not entirely successful in hiding a small smile that pulled at the corners of her mouth.

Hannibal chuckled and said, "Mine may be strange, but yours is quite lovely. May I call you by your first name?"

"Thank you, and you may," Dr. Du Maurier replied, tilting her head in interest with an even gaze aimed at Hannibal as she added, "You've always been encouraged to do so, but until now you'd insisted on referring to me by my title and last name."

"Old habits…" the rest of Hannibal's sentence went unsaid into his glass.

"You keep saying that," she observed, eyeing Hannibal ever-watchfully even as she took another sip.

"I have a lot of old habits," he replied enigmatically, which won him a small smile from the doctor.

After they had finished their wine, Hannibal rose to leave; but before he headed for the door, he turned to Dr. Du Maurier and said, "I enjoyed seeing you on Thursday evening and speaking as colleagues. I'm planning to host my own dinner party soon, and I would like for you to be there."

"As much as I would like to accept your invitation, I'm afraid I can't," Dr. Du Maurier replied, which Hannibal had expected. He feigned an attempt to hide disappointment as she continued, "That would be crossing boundaries for our clinical relationship."

"While I am disappointed by your refusal, I completely understand. Even the unorthodox must have some boundaries," Hannibal went to open the door, but then paused and added, "Nevertheless, know that you are always welcome at my table. I would enjoy cooking for you, Bedelia."

"I appreciate the sentiment," she replied politely, "Goodbye, Hannibal." He bowed his head in farewell and departed; not headed home, but instead towards Dr. Walker's office.


End file.
